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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mirror of Literature ... Vol. 10, Issue 266, July 28, 1827, by  Various</title>
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<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 266, July 28, 1827, by  Various</h1>

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Title: The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 266, July 28, 1827

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION, VOL. 10, ISSUE 266, JULY 28, 1827 ***



</pre>
  <h3>
  Note:&nbsp; The zipped version of this HTML file includes the original illustrations.
        See <a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext06/8m26610h.zip">http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext06/8m26610h.zip</a>
  </h3>
  <br />
 Transcriber's note:&nbsp; In "A Churchyard Scene" the word "iugrate" occurs in
                        the original text. This was probably a typographical
                        error, and the correct word was likely "ingrate."
  <br />
  <br />
  <h3>E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram<br />
      and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders</h3>
    <br />
  <br />
<hr class="full" />
    <span class="pagenum"><a id="page65" name="page65"></a>[pg 65]</span>
    <!-- Mirror of Literature header -->
    <h1>THE MIRROR<br />
    OF<br />
    LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.</h1>
    <hr class="full" />
    <table width="100%">
      <tr>
        <td align="left"><b>Vol. 10, No. 266.]</b></td>
        <td align="center"><b>SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1827.</b></td>
        <td align="right"><b>[PRICE 2d.</b></td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <hr class="full" />
    <!-- end of header -->
    <h2>CROYDON PALACE.</h2>
    <p class="figure"><a href="images/266-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/266-1.png"
    alt="" /></a><br />
    </p>
    <p>The palace of Croydon is a building of great antiquity, and was for several
    centuries the magnificent abode of the haughty dignitaries of Canterbury. At the
    period of the Conquest, Lanfranc resided here, and most of the decrees and audits of
    his successors were issued from, and held at, this palace. It was here that
    Archbishop Parker entertained his queen, Elizabeth and her august court, with great
    splendour and festivity; as also did the celebrated Whitgift, who refused to accept
    of the high office of lord chancellor. Courtney received his pall here with great
    solemnity and pomp in the presence of the chief nobility of the realm; and Chichley,
    Stafford, Laud, Juxon, Wake, and Herring, made it their frequent residence, and were
    liberal contributors to its architectural beauties. The remains of this interesting
    fabric are, with the exception of the hall, composed entirely of brick, occupying a
    considerable space on the south-west side of Croydon church, and are in some points
    peculiarly striking in local appearance; but on account of their unconnected state,
    with the intervening screens of garden walls, &amp;c. the view is confined and
    partial.</p>
    <p>The grand hall is a lofty imposing structure, and at a casual computation appears
    to contain an area of eight hundred square yards; between which and the cornice, at
    the height of about fifteen feet, a moulding or frieze is carried over the surface of
    each wall, from whence, resting their bases on angels bearing, shields variously
    blazoned, issue in the alternate spaces of twelve feet, five ligneous pillars,
    supporting immense beams traversing the intervening distances of the confronting
    sides. The roof is formed of large solid pieces of timber, running diagonally to a
    point; the upper compartment of which (springing from perpendicular posts), is ribbed
    so as to make it have the appearance of a polygonal ellipsis.</p>
    <p>On the right of the southern entrance an escutcheon, surmounted by a canopy, is
    fixed at a considerable height from the pavement, and must have had formerly a
    splendid appearance, as faint traces even now of its original pomp are discernible
    <span class="pagenum"><a id="page66" name="page66"></a>[pg 66]</span>in the faint
    glittering of the gilding, and the exquisite symmetry of its execution. The bearings
    appeared to me as&mdash;party per pall,&mdash;dexter division.&mdash;Sapphire a cross
    gules ensigned with fleur de lis between six martlets
    topaz.&mdash;Sinister&mdash;quarterly sapphire and ruby, first and third, three fleur
    de lis; topaz, second and fourth, three lions passant gardant of the same, supported
    by two angels, and surmounted by a coronet; the whole resting on an angel bearing a
    scroll with a motto in old English text, but illegible.<a id="footnotetag1"
    name="footnotetag1"></a><a href="#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a></p>
    <p>This hall is now occupied by a carpenter, and is almost filled with old furniture
    and timber; other parts of the building are appropriated for charity-schools, and the
    trade of bleaching is practised in its precincts.</p>
    <p>SAGITTARIUS.</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>FINE ARTS</h2>
    <hr />
    <h3>ENGLISH ACADEMIES FOR PAINTING ANTERIOR TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY
    IN LONDON.</h3>
    <p>The first attempt to form an academy for the encouragement of the fine arts in
    this country was made in Great Queen-street, in the year 1697. The laudable design
    was undertaken by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and by the most respectable artists of the
    day, who endeavoured to imitate the French Academy founded by Lewis XIV. Their
    undertaking, however, was wholly without success; jealousies arose among the members,
    and they were ultimately compelled to relinquish the project as fruitless. Sir James
    Thornhill, a few years afterwards, commenced an academy in a room he had built for
    the purpose at the back of his own residence, near Covent-garden theatre; but his
    attempt, likewise, proved abortive. Notwithstanding these failures, Mr. Vanderbank, a
    Dutchman, headed a body of artists, and converted an old Presbyterian meeting-house
    into an academy. Besides plaster figures, Mr. Vanderbank and his associates procured
    a living female figure for study, which circumstance tended to gain a few
    subscribers; but, in a very short space of time, for want of money sufficient to
    defray the necessary expenses, all the effects belonging to the establishment were
    seized for rent, and the members, in disgust, accordingly separated.</p>
    <p>On the demise of Sir James Thornhill, in 1734, the celebrated William Hogarth
    became possessed of part of his property.<a id="footnotetag2"
    name="footnotetag2"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a> Although much averse to
    the principles on which academies were generally founded, Mr. Hogarth considered that
    one conducted wisely would probably be of great advantage to the public, as well as
    to the artists in general. He, therefore, proposed, that a body of artists should
    enter into a subscription for the purchase of a house sufficiently large and
    capacious to admit thirty or forty persons to draw from a naked figure. This
    proposition being unanimously agreed to, a place was forthwith taken in St.
    Martin's-lane; and Hogarth, to forward the undertaking as far as he could, lent them
    the furniture, &amp;c. formerly belonging to Sir James Thornhill's academy.</p>
    <p>The failure of all preceding attempts to form an academy was attributed by Mr.
    Hogarth to the principal members assuming too much authority over their brother
    artists; he, therefore, proposed, that every member should contribute an equal sum of
    money to the establishment, and should have an equal right to vote on every question
    relative to the society. He considered electing presidents, directors, and
    professors, to be a ridiculous imitation of the forms of the French Academy, and
    liable to create jealousies.<a id="footnotetag3" name="footnotetag3"></a><a
    href="#footnote3"><sup>3</sup></a> Under Hogarth's guidance, the Academy continued
    for thirty years, with little alteration, to the high satisfaction of its several
    members, and the public in general.</p>
    <p>On ascending the British throne, George III. evinced so much interest for the
    arts, that most of the members of the academy (though contrary to the wishes of their
    leader, who possessed a most independent spirit,) solicited the royal patronage to a
    plan they had in view of establishing an academy for <i>painting, sculpture</i>, and
    <i>architecture</i>. The success of this appeal is too well known to English readers
    to need much comment. His majesty was pleased to appropriate those very splendid
    apartments in Somerset-house for the use of artists, who shortly formed a <i>new</i>
    society, over which, by his majesty's special command, the great Sir Joshua Reynolds
    presided.</p>
    <p>G.W.N.</p>
    <span class="pagenum"><a id="page67" name="page67"></a>[pg 67]</span>
    <hr />
    <h3>VOLCANOES.</h3>
    <h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
    <p>To describe the awful grandeur and terrific phenomena of volcanic eruptions in an
    adequate manner, is perhaps beyond the power of language. The number of volcanoes now
    known is about four hundred; nearly all of them are situated a small distance from
    the sea, and many appear to have been burning from time immemorial.</p>
    <p>A certain mixture of sulphur, steel-filings and water, buried a short depth from
    the ground, will exhibit a kind of miniature volcano; and hence some philosophers
    have concluded, that in the bowels of burning mountains there are various sorts of
    bodies which probably ferment by moisture, and being thus expanded, at last produce
    eruptions and explosions. The mouth or chimney of a burning mountain is, in many
    instances, upwards of a mile across! from which, in an eruption, are emitted torrents
    of smoke and flame, rivers of lava, (consisting chiefly of bitumen and melted metal,)
    and clouds of cinders, stones, &amp;c. to an immense distance. The wonderful quantity
    of these materials thrown out from the orifice almost exceeds belief; the lava rushes
    like a fiery torrent at a very rapid pace,&mdash;ravages the labours of agriculture,
    overthrows houses, and in a few seconds utterly destroys the hopes of hundreds of
    families&mdash;the toils of hundreds of years. Nothing impedes its awful course; when
    interrupted by stone walls, or even rocks, it collects in a few moments to the height
    of eight or ten feet; its immense heat and violent pressure quickly batter down the
    obstacle, which is literally made rotten by the fire, and the whole mass seems to
    melt together into the lava, which again continues its progress until exhausted by
    the distance of its destructive march.</p>
    <p>An English traveller, who was at Naples during the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, on
    the 10th of September, 1810, thus describes the scene:&mdash;</p>
    <p>"Curious to witness the volcano as near as possible, I set out for Portici, where
    I arrived at eight in the evening; from thence to the summit of the mountain the road
    is long and difficult; having procured a guide about the middle of the distance, we
    had to climb a mountain of cinders, every step nearly knee-deep; this made it near
    midnight when we reached the crater, which we approached as near as the heat would
    permit. The fire of the mountain served us for a beacon, and we set light to our
    sticks in the lava, which slowly ran through the hollows of the crater. The surface
    of the inflamed matter nearly resembles metal in a state of fusion, but as it flows
    it carries a kind of scum, which gradually hardens into scoria and rolls like
    fire-balls to the bottom of the mountain. We thought ourselves pretty secure in this
    spot, and had no wish to retire; but shortly a most terrific explosion which launched
    to an inconceivable height in the air, immense fragments of burning rocks, &amp;c.
    reminded us of our dangerous situation. We lost not a moment in retreating, and
    driven on by fear almost with miraculous speed, cleared in about five minutes, a
    space we had taken two hours to climb; we had hardly gained this spot when a second
    explosion more terrible, if possible, than the former was heard. The volcano in all
    its fury vomited forth some thousands of cart-loads of stones and burning lava. As
    the projection was nearly vertical, the greater part fell back again into the mouth
    of the mountain and this was again vomited forth as before. On the 11th and 12th, the
    fury somewhat abated, but on the 13th a fresh eruption commenced, and burning matter
    flowed down all the sides of the volcano;&mdash;all Vesuvius itself seemed on
    fire,&mdash;not a vestige of property for miles could be discovered, and thousands of
    families were ruined."</p>
    <p>JACOBUS.</p>
    <hr />
    <h3>A CHURCHYARD SCENE.</h3>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      How sweet and solemn, all alone,<br />
      With reverend steps, from stone to stone,<br />
      In a small village churchyard lying,<br />
      O'er intervening flowers to move!<br />
      And as we read the names unknown<br />
      Of young and old to judgment gone,<br />
      And hear in the calm air above<br />
      Time onwards softly flying,<br />
      To meditate, in Christian love,<br />
      Upon the dead and dying!<br />
      Across the silence seem to go<br />
      With dream-like motion, wavery, slow,<br />
      And shrouded in their folds of snow,<br />
      The friends we loved long, long ago!<br />
      Gliding across the sad retreat,<br />
      How beautiful their phantom feet!<br />
      What tenderness is in their eyes,<br />
      Turned where the poor survivor lies<br />
      'Mid monitory sanctities!<br />
      What years of vanished joy are fanned<br />
      From one uplifting of that hand<br />
      In its white stillness! when the shade<br />
      Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade<br />
      From our embrace, how dim appears<br />
      This world's life through a mist of tears!<br />
      Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!<br />
      <br />
      Such is the scene around me now:<br />
      A little churchyard on the brow<br />
      Of a green pastoral hill;<br />
      Its sylvan village sleeps below,<br />
      And faintly here is heard the flow<br />
      Of Woodburn's summer rill;<br />
      <span class="pagenum"><a id="page68" name="page68"></a>[pg 68]</span>A place where
      all things mournful meet,<br />
      And yet the sweetest of the sweet,<br />
      The stillest of the still!<br />
      With what a pensive beauty fall<br />
      Across the mossy, mouldering wall<br />
      That rose-tree's clustered arches! See<br />
      The robin-redbreast warily,<br />
      Bright through the blossoms, leaves his nest:<br />
      Sweet iugrate! through the winter blest<br />
      At the firesides of men&mdash;but shy<br />
      Through all the sunny summer-hours,<br />
      He hides himself among the flowers<br />
      In his own wild festivity.<br />
      What lulling sound, and shadow cool<br />
      Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er,<br />
      From thy green depths so beautiful<br />
      Thou gorgeous sycamore!<br />
      Oft hath the holy wine and bread<br />
      Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,<br />
      Where many a bright and hoary head<br />
      Bowed at that awful sacrament.<br />
      Now all beneath the turf are laid<br />
      On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.<br />
      Above that consecrated tree<br />
      Ascends the tapering spire, that seems<br />
      To lift the soul up silently<br />
      To heaven with all its dreams,<br />
      While in the belfry, deep and low,<br />
      From his heaved bosom's purple gleams<br />
      The dove's continuous murmurs flow,<br />
      A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe,<br />
      The voice so lonely seems!<br />
    </blockquote>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS</h2>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      Notings, selections,<br />
      Anecdote and joke:<br />
      Our recollections;<br />
      With gravities for graver folk.<br />
    </blockquote>
    <hr />
    <h3>SHERIDAN.</h3>
    <p>It was at the strongly contested election for Westminster, when Sheridan was
    opposed by Sir Francis Burdett and Lord Cochrane, that the latter, in allusion to the
    orator's desire of ameliorating his situation on the poll by endeavouring to blend
    his cause with that of the baronet, characteristically observed, "that the right
    honourable gentleman sought to have his <i>little skiff</i> taken <i>in tow</i> by
    the <i>line of battle ship</i> of Sir Francis." Sheridan, in whom the metaphor had
    awakened the remembrance of the remarkable and successful influence of his speech in
    the House of Commons on the occasion of the mutiny at the Nore, in calming the
    irritation of the rebels and reducing them to obedience, in reply to his lordship,
    bade him "to recollect that it was that <i>little skiff</i> which once brought the
    whole navy of England safely into port."</p>
    <p>The election drew towards its termination, but all the efforts of his friends had
    proved unavailing to secure Sheridan's return, although his minority was any thing
    but formidable. The interest that attended the contest had, at its close, become
    intense; and every spot, whence the candidates might be seen or heard, was crowded in
    the extreme. A sailor, anxious to acquire a view of the scene of action, after all
    his exertion to push his way through the crowd had proved fruitless, resorted to the
    nautical expedient of climbing one of the poles which supported a booth directly in
    front of the hustings, from the very top of which Jack was enabled to contemplate all
    that occurred below. As the orator commenced his speech, his eye fell on the elevated
    mariner, whom he had no sooner observed than he rendered his situation applicable to
    his own, by stating that "had he but other five hundred voters as <i>upright</i> as
    the <i>perpendicular</i> gentleman before him, they would yet place him where
    <i>he</i> was&mdash;<i>at the head of the pole</i>."</p>
    <p>Often were his addresses to his constituents interrupted by the tumult that arose
    from the anxiety of the public to get within hearing of him. A person, mounted on
    horseback, had penetrated to the very centre of the crowd, with more regard for
    himself than consideration towards others, as the animal he rode, affrighted by the
    noise, became equally annoying and dangerous to those by whom he was surrounded. The
    outcry was excessive, and, while some strove to appease the clamour, others urged
    Sheridan to proceed. "Gentlemen," replied he to the latter, "when the <i>chorus of
    the horse and his rider</i> is finished, I shall commence."</p>
    <p>His good humour was at no time disturbed during the election, although the
    observations of his noble Caledonian opponent manifested no amicable disposition
    towards the orator. As it terminated, a mutual friend of the rival candidates
    expressed a hope that, with the contest, all animosity should cease; and that the
    gallant officer should drown the memory of differences in a friendly bottle. "With
    all my heart," said Sheridan, "and will thank his lordship to make it <i>a Scotch
    pint</i>."</p>
    <br />

    <p>His treatment of Coleridge, the poet, who had submitted a tragedy to his
    managerial decision, was wholly unmerited by the author, the success of whose piece
    subsequently so well justified the better claims it had on Sheridan's attention. In
    the cavern scene, where the silence of the place is presumed to be only broken by the
    slow dropping of the water from its vault, Sheridan, in reading it to his friends,
    repeated the words of one of the <span class="pagenum"><a id="page69"
    name="page69"></a>[pg 69]</span>characters, in a solemn tone, "Drip! drip! drip!"
    adding, "Why, here's nothing but <i>dripping</i>:" but the story is told by Coleridge
    himself, in the preface to his tragedy, with that good humour and frankness becoming
    one sensible of his powers, and conscious that the witty use of an unfortunate
    expression (were it such) could but little affect the real and numerous beauties of
    the production.</p>
    <p>An author, whose comedies, when returned upon his hands, were generally reduced,
    by the critical amputation of managers, from the fair proportion of five acts to two,
    or even one, with the ordinary suggestion of "<i>necessary alteration</i>," &amp;c.
    complained in wrath and bitterness to Sheridan, who, it is said, attempted to console
    him, by saying, "Why, my good fellow, what I would advise you is, to present a comedy
    of a <i>score</i> of acts, and the devil will be in it if <i>five</i> be not
    saved."</p>
    <br />

    <p>I have heard it said, that, at the first performance of <i>The Critic</i>,
    Sheridan had adopted, as the representative of Lord Burleigh, an actor whose "looks
    profound" accorded with his "ignorance;" but who, until then, had only aspired to the
    livery of the theatre&mdash;the placing of chairs, or the presentation of a letter;
    yet who, in this humble display of histrionic art, generally contrived to commit some
    egregious blunder. He was remonstrated with, on his choice, by one of the performers,
    who demonstrated the excessive dulness of apprehension of <i>the would-be Minister of
    State</i>; and, like other and recent instances in that capacity, his singular
    aptitude to error, however simple the part he had to enact, or clear and concise the
    instructions with which it might be accompanied. As Sheridan had planned the
    character, the face was every thing, and the lengthened, dull, and inexpressive
    visage of the subject was too <i>strictly ministerial</i> to be lost; and the author
    would, as he said, "defy him to go wrong," Still his friend was sceptical; nor were
    his doubts removed by Sheridan's assuring him that the representative of Lord
    Burleigh "would have only to look wise, shake his head, and hold his tongue;" and he
    so far persisted as to lay a bet with the author that some capital blunder would
    nevertheless occur. The wager was accepted, and, in the fulness of his confidence,
    Sheridan insisted that the actor should not even rehearse the part, and yet that he
    should get through with it satisfactorily to the public and himself on the night of
    the first performance. It came. The arbiter of hopes and fears appeared in all the
    "bearded majesty" of the age of Elizabeth; and, flattered by the preference of the
    great author, had carefully conned over the following instructions:&mdash;"Mr.
    &mdash;&mdash;, as Lord Burleigh, will advance from the prompter's
    side;&mdash;proceed to the front of the stage;&mdash;fall back to where Mr.
    G&mdash;&mdash; stands as Sir Christopher Hatton,&mdash;shake his head and exit." The
    important moment came. With "stately step and slow," Lord Burleigh advanced in face
    of the audience. "Capital!" exclaimed the gratified author;&mdash;with equal
    correctness he retreated to the side of Sir Christopher, without <i>literally falling
    back</i>, which Sheridan had for a moment doubted might be the case. "Good! a lucky
    escape though." half faltered the anxious poet. "Now! now!" he continued, with eager
    delight at having got so far so well; but, what was his horror, when his unlucky
    pupil, instead of shaking his <i>own</i> blundering head, in strict but unfortunate
    interpretation of his orders, took <i>that</i> of Sir Christopher within his hands,
    shook it long and manfully, and then walked off with a look of exultation at having
    so exactly complied with his lesson.&mdash;<i>New Monthly Magazine</i>.</p>
    <br />

    <h3>WONDERFUL PECULIARITY IN THE ENGLISH CHARACTER!</h3>
    <p>The French, however wretched may be their condition, are attached to life, while
    the English frequently detest life in the midst of affluence and splendour. English
    criminals are not dragged, but run to the place of execution, where they laugh, sing,
    cut jokes, insult the spectators; <i>and if no hangman happens to be present,
    frequently hang themselves</i>.&mdash;<i>Memoirs of Lewis Holberg</i>.</p>
    <hr />
    <h3>STANZAS.</h3>
    <h4>BY THE AUTHOR OF "FIELD FLOWERS," &amp;C.</h4>
    <h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      I smiled, for not a cloud was seen o'er the blue heaven's expanse,<br />
      As summer's myriad insect tribe led on the winged dance;<br />
      The gaudy butterfly was there ranging from flower to flower,<br />
      And by its side the wild bee humm'd amid the woodbine bower.<br />
      <br />
      I sighed, for when I looked again the sky was overcast,<br />
      The summer insect's winged dance was o'er, yet on I past,<br />
      The gaudy butterfly was gone, the bee away had fled,<br />
      While on each fairest, brightest flower the wasteful locust fed.<br />
      <br />
      Yet e'en this simple scene to youth a moral shall convey,<br />
      Since thus full oft misfortune's clouds obscure life's summer ray;<br />
      <span class="pagenum"><a id="page70" name="page70"></a>[pg 70]</span>To-day we
      smile, for beauty smiles in all her spring-tide bloom&mdash;<br />
      To-morrow sigh, for beauty's bower has now become her tomb!<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>H. B.</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>SELECT BIOGRAPHY.</h2>
    <h4>No. LVI.</h4>
    <hr />
    <h3>GILBERT BURNS.</h3>
    <p>Gilbert Burns was born about the year 1760. He was eighteen months younger than
    his brother Robert, Scotland's most gifted bard. With him he was early inured to
    toil, and rendered familiar with the hardships of the peasant's lot; like him, too,
    he was much subject to occasional depression of spirits, and from whatever cause, he
    had contracted a similar bend or stoop in the shoulders; his frame, like that of
    Robert, was cast in a manly and symmetrical mould. The profile of his countenance
    resembled that of his brother, and their phrenological developments are said to have
    been not dissimilar; the principal disparity lay in the form and expression of the
    eye, which in Gilbert was fixed, sagacious, and steady&mdash;in Robert, almost "in a
    fine frenzy rolling."</p>
    <p>Gibert Burns was the archetype of his father, a very remarkable man; his piety was
    equally warm and sincere; and, in all the private relations of life, as an elder of
    the church, a husband, a father, a master, and a friend, he was preeminent. His
    writings want that variety, originality, and ease, which shine so conspicuously even
    in the prose works of the poet; but they have many redeeming points about them. His
    taste was as pure as his judgment was masculine. He has been heard to say, that the
    two most pleasurable moments of his life were&mdash;first, when he read Mackenzie's
    story of La Roche, and secondly, when Robert took him apart, at the breakfast or
    dinner hour, during harvest, and read to him, while seated on a barley sheaf, his MS.
    copy of the far-famed Cotter's "Saturday Night."</p>
    <p>When Robert Burns was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, Gilbert was
    struggling in the unthrifty farm of Mosgiel, and toiling late and early to keep a
    house over the heads of his aged mother and unprotected sisters. The poet's success
    was the first thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of his fortunes. On settling with
    Mr. Creech, in February, 1788, he received, as the profits of his second publication,
    about 500l.; and, with that generosity which formed a part of his nature, he
    immediately presented Gilbert with nearly half of his whole wealth. Thus succoured,
    Gilbert married a Miss Breconridge, and removed to a better farm at Dinning, in
    Dumfriesshire. While there, he was recommended to Lady Blantyre, whose estates in
    East Lothian he subsequently managed for nearly a quarter of a century. He died at
    Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of Haddington, on one of the Blantyre farms, on
    the 8th of April. He had no fixed complaint; but, for several months preceding his
    dissolution, a gradual decay of nature had been apparent. It is probable that his
    death was accelerated by severe domestic afflictions; as, on the 4th of January, he
    lost a daughter, who had long been the pride of his family hearth; and, on the 26th
    of February following, his youngest son, a youth of great promise, died at Edinburgh,
    of typhus fever, on the eve of his being licensed for the ministry. Mrs. Burns, who
    brought him a family of six sons and five daughters, of whom five sons and one
    daughter are living, survivors.</p>
    <p>It ought to be mentioned that the two hundred pounds which Robert Burns lent to
    his brother, in the year 1788, was not repaid till 1820. Gilbert was far from
    affluent; in early life he had to struggle even for existence; and, therefore, to
    know that his aged mother and one or two sisters, were properly supported, was, in
    the poet's eyes, a full acquittance of all claims. The children of Robert viewed the
    subject in the same light. In 1819, Gilbert Burns was invited by Messrs. Cadell and
    Davies, to revise a new edition of his brother's works; to supply whatever he found
    wanting, and correct whatever he thought amiss. He accepted the invitation; and, by
    appending much valuable matter to the late Dr. Currie's biography, he at once
    vindicated his brother's memory from many aspersions which had been cast upon it, and
    established his own credit as an author. On receiving payment for his labour, the
    first thing he did was, to balance accounts, to the uttermost farthing, with the
    widow and family of his deceased brother. The letter which accompanied the remittance
    of the money was, in the highest degree, creditable to his feelings.</p>
    <p><i>Monthly Magazine</i>.</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.</h2>
    <h4>No. XI.</h4>
    <hr />
    <h3>SPORTS OF THE BURMESE.</h3>
    <p>Shortly after our arrival at Prome we had an opportunity of witnessing some boxing
    and wrestling matches, exercises <span class="pagenum"><a id="page71"
    name="page71"></a>[pg 71]</span>which the Burmahs are very fond of, and which they
    pride themselves much on excelling in. The challenge is given by stepping to the
    front, and with the right hand slapping the left shoulder, at the same time taunting
    the opponent in order to excite him; the struggle does not last long, and when ended,
    no animosity remains between the parties.</p>
    <p>Another amusement of the Burman youth deserves mentioning on account of its
    singularity. This is a game at ball, played by six or eight young men, formed in a
    circle; the ball is hollow, and made of wicker work; and the art of the game consists
    in striking this upwards with the foot, or the leg below the knee. As may be
    conceived, no little skill is required to keep the ball constantly in motion; and I
    have often been much entertained in watching the efforts made by the players to send
    the ball high in the air, so that it should fall within the limits of the ring, when
    it is again tossed by the foot of another. The natives of Hindostan are not
    acquainted with this game, but it is said to be common amongst the Chinese, Japanese,
    and other nations east of the Ganges. But by far the most favourite amusements of the
    Burmahs are acting and dancing, accompanied by music, which to my ear appeared very
    discordant, although occasionally a few rather pleasing notes might be distinguished.
    The principal instrument used in the Burman bands of music is the kiezoop, which is
    formed of a number of small gongs, graduated in size and tone on the principle of the
    harmonica, and suspended in a circular frame about four feet high and five feet wide;
    within which the performer stands, and extracts a succession of soft tones, by
    striking on the gongs with two small sticks. Another circular instrument (the
    boundah) serves as a bass; it contains an equal number of different-sized drums, on
    which the musician strikes with violence, with a view perhaps to weaken the shrill,
    discordant notes of a very rude species of flageolet, and of an equally imperfect
    kind of trumpet, which are usually played with a total disregard of time, tune, or
    harmony. Two or three other instruments, similar in principle to the violin, complete
    the orchestra. To Europeans, there was not much to admire in the sounds produced by
    these instruments; neither did our music appear to have many charms for the Burmahs,
    whom I have seen present at the performance of some of Rossini's most beautiful airs,
    and of different martial pieces, by one of our best regimental bands, without
    expressing, either by their words or gestures, the least satisfaction at what they
    heard.</p>
    <p>In condemning, however, the Bunnaa instrumental music generally, I would observe,
    that some of the vocal airs have a very pleasing effect when accompanied by the
    Patola. This is an instrument made in the fantastic shape of an alligator; the body
    of it is hollow, with openings at the back, and three strings only are used, which
    are supported by a bridge, as in a violin.</p>
    <p>I chanced one day to meet with a young Burman who had been stone blind from his
    birth, but who, gifted with great talent for music, used to console himself for his
    misfortune by playing on this species of guitar, and accompanying his voice. When I
    expressed a wish to hear him perform, he immediately struck out a most brilliant
    prelude, and then commenced a song, in a bold tone, the subject of which was a
    prophecy that had been current at Rangoon before we arrived. It predicted the
    appearance of numerous strangers at that place, and that two-masted ships would sail
    up the Irrawaddy, when all trouble and sorrow would cease! Animated by his subject,
    his voice gradually became bolder and more spirited, as well as his performance, and
    without any hesitation he sung with much facility two or three stanzas composed
    extempore.</p>
    <p>Changing suddenly from the enthusiastic tone, he commenced a soft plaintive
    love-song, and then, after striking the chords for some time in a wild but masterly
    manner, retired. I confess I felt much interested in this poor fellow's performance,
    he seemed so deeply to feel every note he uttered, particularly at one time, when he
    touched upon his own misfortune, that it appeared Providence, in ordaining he should
    never see, had endowed him with this "soul-speaking" talent in some measure to
    indemnify him.</p>
    <p>The Burmahs, generally speaking, are fond of singing, and, in some instances, I
    have heard many very good songs. The war-boat song, for example, is remarkably
    striking. The recitative of the leading songster, and then the swell of voices when
    the boatmen join in chorus, keeping time with their oars, seemed very beautiful when
    wafted down the Irrawaddy by the breeze; and the approach of a war-boat might always
    be known by the sound of the well-known air.</p>
    <p>I have sometimes heard a trio sung in parts by three young girls, with a
    correctness of ear and voice which would do credit to others than the self-taught
    Burmahs. Many little songs, amongst others that commencing "Tekien, Tekien," were
    composed and sung by the Burman fair in compliment to their new and welcome visiters,
    the white strangers; but <span class="pagenum"><a id="page72" name="page72"></a>[pg
    72]</span>these, of course, are long since consigned to oblivion, unless they
    recollect with pleasure</p>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      &mdash;"The grateful breath of song,<br />
      That once was heard in happier hours;"<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>for it is very certain that the Bunnahs considered themselves quite happy, when
    enjoying the transient glimpse of liberty, and the advantages of a just government
    which were offered them during the short stay of the British army at Prome.</p>
    <p>The Burman plays do not appear to be remarkable for the number of their
    <i>dramatis person&aelig;</i>. In most there is a prince, a confidant, a buffoon or
    two, and a due proportion of female characters, represented by boys dressed in female
    attire. The dresses are handsome; and in one which I attended, the dialogue appeared
    to be lively and well supported, as far as I can judge from the roars of laughter
    which resounded from the Burman part of the audience. One sentimental scene, in which
    the loving prince takes leave of his mistress, and another where, after much weeping
    and flirtation, she throws herself into his arms, were sufficiently intelligible to
    us; but some, in which the jokes of the clown formed the leading feature, were quite
    lost upon those who did not understand the language. The place chosen for the
    representation was a spot of ground outside of our houses, the heat being very great;
    and here a circle was formed of carpets and chairs, lighted by torches dipped in
    petroleum, which threw a brilliant flare around, though accompanied by a most
    unpleasant odour.</p>
    <p>Dancing succeeded, and one or two young women were the performers; like the
    Hindostanee Nautch, it merely consisted in throwing the body and arms into numerous
    graceful and rather voluptuous postures; at the same time advancing slowly, with a
    short steady step, and occasionally changing it for a more lively figure.</p>
    <p>All this time the drums, cymbals, and clarionets were unceasing in their
    discordant sounds, and, before long, fairly drove me from the field.</p>
    <p><i>Two Years in Ava.</i></p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>THE NOVELIST.</h2>
    <h4>No. CVI.</h4>
    <hr />
    <h3>ROSALIE BERTON.</h3>
    <p>While passing some time in the south of France, I spent a few days at
    S&mdash;&mdash;, a town on the banks of the Loire, situated in that province, which,
    from its fertility and beauty, is usually designated the garden of France.</p>
    <p>S&mdash;&mdash;, I had been informed, was a place famed alike for its vineyards
    and its pretty girls, a coincidence certainly natural, since it fairly may be
    supposed, that the sun which ripens the richest fruit in nature, should alike mature
    its sweetest flowers, and perfect the beauties and the charms of that sex, which is
    literally "like the fair flower in its lustre." As the friend, by whom I was
    accompanied, was well known in the place, we were soon introduced to a circle of
    respectable families; and among others, to that of Berton, consisting of the father,
    mother, and daughter.</p>
    <p>Rosalie Berton was the <i>belle</i> of S&mdash;&mdash;, or to borrow the far
    prettier French phrase, she was "<i>la perle de ville</i>." And a sweet and lovely
    girl she was, as ever the eye of affection hailed with delight. Her charms had
    something of a peculiar style and character; for, with the bright black eyes, and
    fine dark hair of the south, were united the fair complexion and delicately tinted
    cheek of a northern beauty. Her face was of a somewhat more pensive turn than usual,
    and her meek, mild features, and soft dark eyes, bore traces of tender feeling and of
    gentle thought; while so expressive was her countenance, that it responded, at will,
    to her feelings, and the eye and the cheek which were one moment impressed with
    melancholy, beamed forth the next with all the warmth of intelligence, affection, or
    delight. Her accomplishments were really of a superior kind; she walked with more
    than the usual elegance of her country-women, and danced with equal animation and
    grace. But her most attractive charm consisted in her voice, which, though not
    particularly powerful, had a sweetness and a melody which were perfectly delightful;
    so that never methinks have I heard a softer strain, than when that fair girl was
    wont to sing to her guitar the simple ballads and sweet romances of her native land.
    And her musical talents were enhanced by her gentle, complying disposition, and by
    the readiness with which she obeyed every call on her exertions. From her
    music-master, who was a native of Italy, she also learnt Italian, which she spoke
    with more fluency and correctness than is usual among the French; she drew, moreover,
    with considerable taste. So affectionate and so amiable was she, that she deserved
    all the encomiums of her friends and even their hyperbolical compliments were
    scarcely extravagant when applied to her. She was literally "<i>douce comme un ange,
    jolie comme les amours;</i>" and, as the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of merit in France, she
    was "<i>tout a fait gentille</i>." She possessed also, considerable <span
    class="pagenum"><a id="page73" name="page73"></a>[pg 73]</span>dramatic skill and
    tact, and would, I think, have proved a delightful acquisition to the stage, from the
    skill she displayed in those little playful scenes, with which the French delight to
    embellish life.</p>
    <p>We were favoured with a specimen of her talents in this way, on the evening of our
    arrival. It was the f&ecirc;te day of madame, the mother of Louise, and we were
    invited to be present. After some time passed in taking refreshments, varied by
    dancing, conversation, &amp;c., the little ceremony of the evening commenced; the
    door opened, and a small but gay procession entered the room. It consisted of several
    young persons, all friends of the family, headed by Louise, who was charmingly
    dressed, and looked altogether most lovely. She bore her guitar across her bosom, and
    the instrument was encircled with a wreath of flowers. Each individual carried some
    little offering, such as bottles of wine and liqueurs, conserves and sweetmeats,
    flowers and fruit, &amp;c. &amp;c.; and these were placed on the table, the whole
    group forming a circle round Rosalie, who advanced to her mother, and sang to the
    guitar the well-known verses consecrated to such occasions.</p>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      Madame c'est aujourdhui votre fete,<br />
      C'est aussi celle de nos coeurs;<br />
      A vous chanter chacun s'apprete!<br />
      Et veut vous courouner de fleurs!<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>The lovely girl then loosed the garland from her lyre, placed it with light hand
    on the brow of her mother, and sank in a graceful bending attitude to receive her
    parent's blessing. She was instantly raised, fondly embraced by both her admiring
    parents, and with a repetition of the song, the whole party left the room. The scene
    is long past, but I have often recalled it since; and in many an hour of fancy and of
    thought, have again beheld that fair girl kneeling to her mother, again beheld her
    clasped to that mother's heart. Nor was the above the only instance of her skill,
    every day presented some fresh instance of her feeling and of taste.</p>
    <p>A <i>plaisanterie</i>, which proved very successful, was arranged as
    follows:&mdash;We were sitting one evening up stairs, when we were attracted by the
    performance of three musicians, who were singing in the <i>cour</i>. The party
    consisted of two young men, and a female, who wore a veil; they accompanied their
    songs by playing on the guitar; their performance was evidently of a superior
    character; the music and the words were Italian, and the voice of the female
    performer was eminently sweet and touching. After listening some time with great
    delight&mdash;</p>
    <p>"Go," said I to one of the party, "find Rosalie, and tell her to come and listen
    to a better singer than herself, who will give her a <i>lecon de chant</i>."</p>
    <p>This was said in the hearing of the foreign songstress, for whom it was intended
    as a compliment, while, at the same time, some silver was thrown upon the ground. But
    what was our surprise, when the lovely girl threw aside her veil,
    exclaiming&mdash;</p>
    <blockquote>
      "He! bien messieurs et dames! vous ne connaissez donc plus votre pauvre Rosalie!"
    </blockquote>
    <p>Such was one of many pleasantries by which we were diverted and amused. Idle
    fancies these indeed, and such as sterner judgments may deem trifling or absurd, yet
    not uninteresting, since many of them evidently afford vestiges of classic times and
    manners, transmitted through the course of ages; nor unuseful, since they tend to
    smooth and adorn the rugged way of life, and to strew its flinty path with
    flowers.</p>
    <p>With the charms and accomplishments which I have described, (and the sketch can
    convey but a faint idea of those which she actually possessed,) it cannot be supposed
    that Rosalie was destitute of admirers. She had, indeed, had several, but their suits
    were all unsuccessful. She had been addressed in turn by the <i>medecin</i> of the
    place&mdash;by the son of the President of the Tribunal du Commerce&mdash;and by a
    nephew to a Monsieur de V&mdash;&mdash;, the seigneur who resided at a neighbouring
    ch&acirc;teau. But they were all, more or less, improper characters; the
    <i>medecin</i> was a gamester; the president's son a drunkard, a character utterly
    despised in these parts; while the nephew to the seigneur, was actually a <i>mauvais
    sujet</i>! What the French precisely understand by a <i>mauvais sujet</i>, I never
    could exactly make out; for, when impelled by curiosity to inquire, my queries were
    always met by such a volley of vituperation, as left one altogether in the dark with
    regard to the real nature of the charge. On the whole, I presume, we are to consider
    a <i>mauvais sujet</i> as a culprit, compared with whose transgressions, the several
    enormities of gaming, drinking, and the like, sink into mere peccadilloes.</p>
    <p>The parents of Rosalie (the parents settle all these matters in France), on
    learning the character of their intended sons-in-law, dismissed them one after the
    other; and Rosalie acquiesced in their determination with a readiness and a decision,
    which did equal honour to her affection and her judgment.</p>
    <p>So interesting a girl, however, was not likely to remain long without a suitable
    <span class="pagenum"><a id="page74" name="page74"></a>[pg 74]</span>admirer, and she
    speedily had another <i>affaire du coeur</i>. A young and handsome <i>militaire</i>,
    a sous-lieutenant in the royal guard, aspired to gain her hand, and to replace the
    vacancy in her affections.</p>
    <p>Henri Vaucouleurs was a fine, tall, dark, martial-looking young man (the French
    make fine-looking soldiers), and, with his luxuriant mustachios and the eager glance
    of his keen black eye, seemed the very <i>beau ideal</i> of a modern hero. Born at
    Mezieres, in the department of Ardennes, he was cradled in the very lap of war, and
    was yet a mere boy; when, in the summer of 1813, he joined the corps called the
    <i>garde d'honneur</i>. He made the campaign of Germany, and was present in the
    battles of Leipzig and of Hanau, in the last of which he received a ball in the right
    arm. He shortly, however, resumed his post with the army assembled for the defence of
    France, and at the battle of Laon received a severe <i>coup de sabre</i> on his
    forehead, the scar of which added much to the martial aspect of his countenance. At
    the peace he joined the royal guard, in which corps he still continued. He was really
    a very estimable and engaging young man; and possessed more candour, intelligence,
    and good sense, than I think I ever witnessed in a military man among the French. His
    account of his campaigns was exceedingly modest, unaffected, and intelligent, and his
    whole conversation and manner were of a superior character. I remember, he spoke with
    great forbearance of the three principal nations among the allies, the Russians,
    Prussians, and Austrians; but inveighed, bitterly, against several of the
    auxiliaries, who, he said, having received only benefits of the French emperor,
    embraced the first opportunity offered by a reverse of fortune, to desert and betray
    him. Of Napoleon, he spoke with enthusiasm as a soldier; but with detestation, as an
    intoxicated and deluded tyrant, a rash and desperate gamester, who sent forth his
    attached and devoted soldiers, to be devoured by the destroying elements, without
    provision, or scarcely a thought for their natural and indispensable wants.</p>
    <p>Such were the character and pretensions of him who was destined to gain the
    affections of Rosalie. At first, he seemed to have but little chance of success. Old
    people commonly entertain a prejudice against the character and profession of
    military men, and are seldom ambitious of such an alliance for a daughter. The
    parents of Rosalie were prepossessed against Henri on account of his calling; and,
    though Rosalie herself early entertained an interest in his favour, yet she was too
    good and too <i>sage</i> to cherish in herself, or to encourage in her lover, an
    attachment which her parents might disapprove. Henri was, however, admitted as a
    visiter at the house, and by degrees his amiable manners and correct deportment won,
    first on the old lady, and then on the father, till their scruples vanished, and,
    indeed, they wondered they could ever have entertained any against so estimable a
    young man and an officer. He was thus speedily received as the lover of Rosalie, and
    about the time of my visit was installed in all the privileges of a <i>bon ami</i>.
    He was equally accomplished with herself; spoke German fluently, Italian passably
    well, and was an excellent performer on the flute and the guitar; so that he was a
    fit companion for his charming intended, and was able to assist in those refined and
    elegant recreations, in which she also excelled.</p>
    <p><i>(To be concluded in our next.)</i></p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS</h2>
    <hr />
    <h3>DOZING.</h3>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      "Dozing very much delights."
    </blockquote>
    <p>Our corporeal machinery requires an occasional relaxation, as much as the steam
    engine does the application of oil to its divers springs; and, after a <i>bon&acirc;
    fide</i> slumber, we rise with a freshness equal to that of flowers in the best
    regulated flower-pots. But dozing must not be confounded with legitimate sleep,
    though frequently tending to the same purpose; it may be termed an embryo slumber,
    that entertaineth the body with the most quiescent gentleness, acting on our senses
    as a sort of mental warm bath; till, finally, the "material man" himself luxuriates
    in tepidity.</p>
    <p>Nothing can be more ungodly than to enter the church with an express purpose of
    dozing there. Arm-chairs, sofas, and beds are the legitimate places for dozers. But
    there is no accounting for that conquering spirit of all-besetting drowsiness that
    attacks us at sundry times and places. It is in vain that we lengthen our limbs into
    an awakening stretch&mdash;that we yawn with the expressive suavity of yawning no
    more&mdash;that we dislocate our knuckle bones, and ruffle the symmetry of our
    visage, with a manual application; like the cleft blaze of a candle, drowsiness
    returns again. Well, then, what manner of reader is he that hath never sinned by
    drowsing in church time? Let him read <span class="pagenum"><a id="page75"
    name="page75"></a>[pg 75]</span>on; and I'll realize by description what he has
    realized by endurance.</p>
    <p>It is after the embodying of a good dinner with ourselves, that doziness is most
    tempting. You have dined at four o'clock to-day. Well, that's a decent Sabbatical
    hour. After due potations of wine, coffee, &amp;c. your gratitude is awakened; and,
    like a good Christian, you arrange your beaver, and walk off steadily to church. Now,
    remember, I give you full credit for your wish to exhibit your external
    holiness&mdash;that you are indeed conscious of the reverence that should accompany
    all your engagements in the fane of the Deity; and yet I prognosticate that if the
    Rev. Nabob Narcotic happen to preach this evening, you will, of a surety,
    doze&mdash;infallibly doze&mdash;in the midst of his sermon!</p>
    <p>'Tis a summer month, and the very church windows seem labouring with a fit
    perspiration. Horribly boring&mdash;isn't it? How your hat clings to your moistened
    forehead, and the warm gloves droop from your fingers, like roasting chicken! Get as
    much room as possible; tenderly pass little miss there, and her unbreeched brother,
    over to their smiling mamma. Now you have the balmy corner to yourself! "Psalms,"
    first lesson&mdash;second ditto&mdash;prayers&mdash;thanksgivings&mdash;all
    reverently attended to; there is a little dreaminess settling on your lids&mdash;your
    lips begin to close with languor; but you have not dozed. Let's hear the sermon. You
    are seated with tolerable erectness; and, judging from the steady determination of
    your eyebrows, one would imagine that your eyes would be open for the whole of the
    discourse. But, alas! 'tis Mr. Narcotic, whose spectacled nose is just verging above
    the crimson horizon of his pulpit.&mdash;"Awake, thou that sleepest!" Why, the text
    is quite opposed to DOZINESS! But what of this, if the preacher be addicted to
    drawling, the weather unobligingly sultry, and you yourself have gradually been
    dwindling from an uncongenial state of wakefulness into a sleepy calm? 'Tis too much
    for beldame Nature, believe me!</p>
    <p>I perceive that you have rubbed the bridge of your nose several times&mdash;that
    you have tried to swell forth your eyes with a full round stare at the parson; but
    your stoicism "profiteth nothing." The sermon is irreligiously long; and you are
    nodding&mdash;in a doze! Whether there be much pleasure in a church doze, I am not
    presuming enough to determine. For myself, I have found nothing more tantalizing than
    the endeavour to restrain from an occasioned doze during church time. After a certain
    period, I have perceived the parson diminishing, like a phantasmagoric
    image&mdash;all the ladies' black bonnets sinking away, like a cluster of
    clouds&mdash;and (shame on the confession!) I have performed head worship to the
    front of my seat, instead of keeping an immovable post-like position, before his
    reverence. However, a church doze is seldom admired by the wakeful. Should an embryo
    snore escape from one's nose (and this is possible,) some old grandam, or an upright
    piece of masculine sanctity, is sure to rouse you; the former will either <i>hem</i>
    you into awakening shame, or drop her prayer-book on the floor; the latter will most
    likely thump the same with the imperative tip of his boot. How horridly stupid one
    seems after being aroused! The woman eyes you with the most piquant, self-justifying
    sneer possible; while all her little IMMACULATES, if she have any, look at you like
    so many hissing young turkey cocks; and as for the man&mdash;bless his
    holiness!&mdash;he'd frown you down to Hades at once.</p>
    <p>"My heart leaps up" when I behold a stage coach&mdash;that snug, panel painted,
    comfortable wheel-whirling "thing of life." O ye days of juvenilian
    sensibilities&mdash;ye eye-feeding, heart-rising scenes of remembered
    felicity!&mdash;how glorious was the coach at the school door! The whip&mdash;Ajax
    <i>Mastigoferos</i> never had such a powerful one as the modern Jehu! The spokes of
    the wheels&mdash;they were handled with admiring fingers! That Jupiter-like throne,
    the coach-box&mdash;who would not have risked his neck to have been seated on it?
    When all was "right," how eloquent the lip-music of coachee! how fine the
    introductory frisks of the horses' tails, and the arching plunge of the
    fore-foot&mdash;no rainbow-curve ever was so beauteous! "Oh, happy days! who would
    not be a boy again?" But away with my puerilities. I intend the reader to take a doze
    in that comfortable repository for the person&mdash;the inside of a coach.</p>
    <p>With all the reckless simplicity of boyhood, I maintain that travelling by coach
    is by no means the least of our sublunary pleasures. Man is a <i>wheelable</i> animal
    as well as walking one. Winter is the time for a nice inside jaunt. What divine
    evaporations from the coachman's muzzle! What a joyous creak in the down-flying
    steps!&mdash;and, oh! that comfortable alertness with which we deposit ourselves in
    the padded corner, and fold our coatflaps over our knees, glance at the frosty steam
    of the window; and then, quite <i>&agrave; la Tityre</i>, repose our recumbent bodies
    at our ease! Such moments as these are snatches of indefinable <span
    class="pagenum"><a id="page76" name="page76"></a>[pg 76]</span>bliss. It would appear
    probable, that a coach was a very inconvenient place for a doze; the attendant
    bustle, the whip-smacks, bickering wheels, and untranquillizing jolts&mdash;</p>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      "Like angels' visits, few and far between,"&mdash;<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>are not calculated for sleepiness. Notwithstanding these correlative
    interruptions, a doze in the coach is by no means uncommon, even in the daytime. Let
    us examine this a little more intellectually.</p>
    <p>Suppose a man is returning to his friends, with a mind composed, and "all his
    business settled." (By-the-by, how vastly comprehensive this speech is!) Suppose he
    has entered the coach about four in the afternoon, and, by rare luck, finds he is,
    for the present, the only inside passenger. Such a man, I say, will be likely to doze
    before twenty miles have run under the coach-wheels&mdash;speaking
    <i>Hibernic&egrave;</i>. For the last half-hour, he will be thinking of
    himself&mdash;how many commissions he has performed&mdash;how many he has left
    undone&mdash;and how many he intends to do. The next, he will probably give to his
    home attractions&mdash;his anxious wife, sat musingly round the tea-table&mdash;his
    favourite son George (so like his father)&mdash;and all the nine hundred and
    ninety-nine pretty nothings we hear of, after a brief absence. These will send his
    heart a long way from the coach, and therefore keep him in the full enjoyment of
    wakefulness. But this train of delectable musing is by no means exhaustless. The roll
    of the wheels gradually becomes naturalized to the ear, and the body moves in
    sympathy with the coach; the road gets very monotonously barren; the lounge in the
    corner&mdash;how suitable then to this solitary languor! Lulled here, the traveller
    for awhile admires the leathern trappings of the coach, hums a tune perhaps, and
    affects a dubious whistle. Meantime the operations of <i>doziness</i> have been
    gently applying themselves. His eye is sated with the road and the coach; his hands
    become stationary on his lap; his feet supinely rested on the opposite seat; his head
    instinctively motions to the corner&mdash;and he dozes! A doze in the coach is the
    flower of dozes, when you are alone. There, you may twist your person into any shape
    you please, without the fear of discomposing a silken dress, or a nursemaid's
    petticoats. No boisterous arguments from snuff-taking sexagenarians: all is placid
    &mdash;Eden-like&mdash;just as a dozer's <i>sanctorum</i> ought to be! The only thing
    attendant on the doze of an inside passenger, is the great chance of being suddenly
    aroused by the entrance of company. O tell me, ye of the fine nerve, what is more
    vexing than to be startled from your nest by the creaking slam of the steps, the
    bleak winter gales galloping along your face, and a whole bundle of human beings
    pushing themselves into your retreat! There is no rose without its thorn, as myriads
    have said before me:&mdash;</p>
    <blockquote>
      &mdash;&mdash;"O beate Sexti,<br />
      Vit&aelig; summa brevis SPEM nos vetat inchoare LONGAM!"<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>Not all the morose sarcasms of Johnson, on the pleasures of rural life, have ever
    weakened my capability for enjoying it at convenient intervals. His antipathy to the
    country resembled his contempt for blank-verse&mdash;<i>he</i> could not enjoy it. I
    have now moped away a considerable number of months in this city of all
    things&mdash;this&mdash;this London. "Well?" Pray restrain yourself, reader; I am
    coming to the point in due season. During my metropolitan existence&mdash;although I
    am neither a tailor, nor any trade, nor anything exactly&mdash;I have never beheld a
    downright intellectual-looking blade of grass. I mean much by an intellectual blade
    of grass. The Londoners&mdash;poor conceited creatures!&mdash;have denominated sundry
    portions of their Babylon "fields." But&mdash;I ask it in all the honest pride of
    sheer ignorance&mdash;is there the ghost even of a bit of grass to be seen in many of
    them? I cannot easily forget my vexation, when, after a tedious walk to one of those
    misnomered "fields," I found nothing but a weather-beaten, muggy, smoky assemblage of
    houses of all sizes, circumscribed by appropriate filth and abundant cabbage-stumps.
    Innocent of London quackeries, I strolled forth with the full hope of laying me down
    on a velvet carpet of grass&mdash;the birds carolling around me&mdash;and, perchance,
    a flock of lambkins, tunefully baying to their mammas!! "Said I to myself," when I
    reached these fields, "what a fool I am!" I had contemplated a doze on the grass.</p>
    <p>But leaving all thoughts of disappointment, who will not allow that there is
    something exceedingly delightful in dozing calmly beneath the shade of an
    o'er-arching tree?</p>
    <blockquote>
      &mdash;&mdash;"recubans sub tegmine fagi."<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>Of course, the weather should be fine, to admit of this luxurious idleness. Let
    the blue-bosomed clouds be sailing along, like Peter Bell's boat; let the sunbeams be
    gilding the face of nature, and tinging the landscape with multiform hues; let the
    breezes be gentle, the spot retired, <span class="pagenum"><a id="page77"
    name="page77"></a>[pg 77]</span>and the heart at ease. Now, go and stretch yourself
    on the grassy couch, while the branches of an aged tree shadow forth the imaged
    leaves around you. What a congenial situation for philosophy&mdash;under an old tree,
    on a sunny summer day! How much more becoming than the immortal tub of the
    sour-minded Diogenes? Who will be able to refrain from philosophizing. I repeat it,
    beneath such an old tree? 'Tis at such times that the heart spontaneously unbends
    itself&mdash;that the fancy tranquillizes its thoughts&mdash;and that memory awakens
    her</p>
    <blockquote>
      &mdash;&mdash;"treasured pictures of a thousand scenes."<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>Place the palms of your hands beneath your pole, and survey the skies!&mdash;calm,
    beautifully unconscious! By-gone times, and by-gone friends&mdash;the thousand
    commingling scenes of varied life&mdash;how they all recur to you now! You fancy you
    could lie beneath the tree for eternity&mdash;so soothing is the employment of doing
    nothing&mdash;or field philosophy! Yet, to speak correctly, you are doing a great
    deal; your imagination is flying in all directions&mdash;from the death of Caesar to
    the last cup of Congou that you took with a regretted friend. What a mystery your
    existence is! The world turns round as gently as ever; the flowers bud into life; and
    the winter nips them. Man lives, thinks, and dies. All very wondrous truisms. Well,
    after a half-hour&mdash;or perchance more&mdash;you will be gradually relapsing into
    a state of soporific nothing-at-all-ness (the best word I can find to express my
    meaning.) May there be some clear little stream just behind you, laughing along its
    idle way;&mdash;some chirping birds, singing their roundelay&mdash;some buzzing
    flies&mdash;you will then be lulled into doziness. However, with or without the
    purling murmur of the brook&mdash;the joyous warbling of the birds&mdash;the busy
    bustling flies&mdash;you will not be able to resist the dozing temptations that will
    steal over you. Your eyes will close gently as flower-leaflets&mdash;your thoughts
    die away in a heavenly confusion&mdash;and then you doze!&mdash;neither sleeping nor
    waking, but absolved in delicious dreaminess! O, for such a doze!&mdash;<i>Monthly
    Magazine</i>.</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>THE SELECTOR,<br />
    AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.</h2>
    <hr />
    <h3>THE CHINESE ALMANAC.</h3>
    <p>Notwithstanding the aversion of the Chinese to the profession of the Roman
    Catholic religion, which has been shown, first by persecuting, and then by expelling
    the Jesuits from the empire, the Chinese government is, however, obliged to keep at
    least some missionaries at Pekin to compile the almanac. While astrology has led in
    other nations to the study of astronomy, the Chinese, though they have studied
    astrology for some thousand years, have made no progress in the real knowledge of the
    stars. Their ancient boasted observations, and the instruments which they make use
    of, were brought by the learned men, whom Koubila&iuml;, the grandson of Gingis Khan,
    had invited from Balk and Samarcand. The government, at present, considers the
    publication of an annual calendar of the first importance and utility. It must do
    every thing in its power, not only to point out to its numerous subjects the
    distribution of the seasons, the knowledge of which is essentially necessary to them,
    to arrange the manner of gaining their livelihood, and distributing their labour; but
    on account of the general superstition, it must mark in the almanac, the lucky and
    unlucky days, the best days for being married, for undertaking a journey, for making
    their dresses, for buying, or building, for presenting petitions to the emperor, and
    for many other cases of ordinary life. By this means, the government keeps the people
    within the limits of humble obedience; it is for this reason that the emperors of
    China established the academy of astronomy, but we must not expect to find men really
    acquainted with that science. When this illustrious body, composed of Mantchoos, and
    in which Europeans, though subordinate, are the most active, condescended to look at
    the planetarium, which was among the presents which the king of England sent to the
    emperor of China by lord Macartney, Mr. Barrow was not able to make the president of
    this learned society understand the real merit of that instrument. Besides, how
    should a people be able to comprehend astronomy, to know the position of the heavenly
    bodies, and determine the orbits of the planets, while it is ignorant of the elements
    of mathematics, and makes its calculations by the help of vertical arithmetical
    tables, like those used by the shop-keepers in Russia, and who are ignorant both of
    analysis and geometry?&mdash;<i>Timkowski's Mission to China</i>.</p>
    <hr />
    <h3>COMPARISON OF THE FRENCH AND ENGLISH.</h3>
    <p>The following are points of comparison which may be remarked in the characters
    <span class="pagenum"><a id="page78" name="page78"></a>[pg 78]</span>of the French
    and English. The French are great talkers, the English great thinkers; the former
    excel in vivacity, the latter in solidity of intellect. The French dress with
    splendour, the English with neatness; the French live almost exclusively on bread,
    the English on meat. Both are passionate; but it is the blood which rouses the
    passion of a Frenchman, and the bile which exasperates an Englishman. The anger of a
    Frenchman is more violent, that of an Englishman more pertinacious. A Frenchman
    spends his money on his clothes, an Englishman on his belly. A Frenchman follows the
    stream, an Englishman delights in struggling against it. The friendships of the
    French are quickly formed, and as quickly dissolved; those of the English are formed
    slowly, and as slowly relinquished. The French respect their superiors, the English
    respect themselves; the former are better citizens, the latter better men. The mental
    endowments of the French are of a more refined, those of the English of a loftier,
    character. The French practise virtue for the sake of reputation, and seek the reward
    of meritorious actions in popular applause; the English practise it for its own sake,
    and seek no reward but that which springs from the consciousness of rectitude. There
    is the same relative difference in their vices as in their virtues. Both commit
    crimes; the French from the love of gain, the desire of vengeance or similar motives;
    but the English are often criminal for the mere sake of committing crime. The French,
    like the people of other countries, often commit crimes in the hope of escaping
    punishment, but the English frequently commit crimes because they know they cannot
    escape unpunished; so that the very severity of the law, which deters others from
    crime, often operates as an additional stimulus on the English for the commission of
    offences, "I would commit this offence," exclaims the Frenchman, "if the law
    permitted it." "I would not commit this offence, if it were not prohibited by law,"
    is frequently the language of the Englishman.&mdash;<i>Memoirs of Lewis
    Holberg</i>.</p>
    <hr />
    <h3>LEAVES AND FLOWERS, OR THE LOVER'S WREATH.</h3>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      With tender vine-leaves wreathe thy brow,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;And I shall fancy that I see,<br />
      In the bright eye that laughs below,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;The dark grape on its parent tree.<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Tis but a whim&mdash;but, oh! entwine<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Thy brow with this green wreath of mine.<br />
      <br />
      Weave of the clover-leaves a wreath,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;Fresh sparkling with a summer-shower,<br />
      And I shall, in my fair one's breath,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;Find the soft fragrance of the flower.<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Tis but a whim&mdash;but, oh! do thou<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Twine the dark leaves around thy brow.<br />
      <br />
      Oh, let sweet-leaved geranium be<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;Entwined amidst thy clustering hair,<br />
      Whilst thy red lips shall paint to me,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;How bright its scarlet blossoms are.<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Tis but a whim&mdash;but, oh! do thou<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Crown with my wreath thy blushing brow.<br />
      <br />
      Oh, twine young rose-leaves round thy head,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;And I shall deem the flowers are there,&mdash;<br />
      The red rose on thy rich cheek spread,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;The white upon thy forehead fair.<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Tis but a whim&mdash;but, oh! entwine<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My wreath round that dear brow of thine.<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p><i>The Draught of Immortality, &amp;c.</i></p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>ARTS AND SCIENCE</h2>
    <hr />
    <h3>FLATTENING OF THE EARTH.</h3>
    <p>At the Academy of Sciences at Paris, a memoir was read by Captain Duperrey, on the
    experiments made with the invariable pendulum, during the voyage of the
    <i>Coquille</i> round the world. He states that various experiments confirmed the
    fact of the flattening of the terrestrial globe, conjectured by several travellers,
    who had remarked that the number of oscillations which the pendulum made at certain
    places, differed from what had been observed in the extent of the same parallel. The
    principal anomalies observed by Captain Duperrey were at the Isle of France, Mons,
    Guam, and the Island of Ascension. At the Isle of France, the invariable pendulum (as
    had been remarked by M. Freycinet) made in one day, upon an average, thirteen or
    fourteen oscillations more than it ought, supposing the depression to be 1.305,
    according to the lunar theory. At Ascension, the acceleration, as noticed by Captain
    Sabine, was five or six oscillations, even supposing the depression to be 1.228. At
    other stations the difference was almost nothing; and in some, the motion of the
    pendulum was retarded. Such differences, Captain Duperry remarks, between the results
    of experiment and those given by theory, cannot be attributed to errors of
    observation. He is disposed to refer the cause of the phenomena, with Captain Sabine,
    to the want of homogeneousness in the earth, considered as a mass, or to the mere
    variations of density in the superficial strata. What tends to confirm this
    hypothesis, he says, is, that all observations show that an acceleration of the
    pendulum generally takes place on volcanic ground <span class="pagenum"><a
    id="page79" name="page79"></a>[pg 79]</span>and a retardation on such as is sandy and
    argillaceous. A very important question to ascertain is, whether the flattening is
    exactly the same in both hemispheres. From the observations of Captains Duperrey and
    Freycinet, it appears that in the southern hemisphere it is 1.291, and in the
    northern 1.288; that is to say, it is sensibly the same, or 1.290 in both.</p>
    <hr />
    <h3>HABITS OF PLANTS.</h3>
    <p>The following curious observations on the habits of plants, were made by General
    Walker, in his address to the Agricultural Society of St. Helena, in February
    last:&mdash;"The functions of plants, as well as of animals, depend upon the air in
    which they live. I have observed that those of St. Helena, which have been brought
    from another hemisphere, are very irregular in their annual progress; many of them,
    in the development of their foliage, have adopted the law of nature peculiar to the
    country into which they have been transplanted. Others, more obstinate, remain
    faithful to their own habits, and continue to follow the stated changes to which they
    had been accustomed. They all appear to maintain a struggle either before they adopt
    the habits which belong to the seasons of their new country, or decide on retaining
    their relations with the old. In yielding to external circumstances, they appear to
    have different tempers. This appearance of contention is often observed in plants of
    the same species; they seem to hesitate and deliberate, ere they adopt the mode of
    performing the functions of life. At length when the decision is made, apparently not
    without pain and effort, we are at a loss to discover an adequate cause. An oak, for
    instance, which loses its leaves in a St. Helena winter of 68 degrees, scarcely
    experiences the difference of temperature, which, reasoning by analogy, could cause
    that change. It would have continued to maintain inflexibility, in its original
    climate, its old habits, though exposed to far greater irregularity and severity of
    climate. But though the law is obeyed by many plants, it does not determine the
    periodical changes of the whole, nor do they all submit to it with equal readiness
    and regularity. It would add, I conceive, to the natural history of vegetation, and
    improve our knowledge of the geography of plants, were the facts concerning their
    habits and changes, under different temperatures, carefully collected."</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>MISCELLANIES.</h2>
    <hr />
    <h3>HUMAN CREDULITY.</h3>
    <p>The wonderful miracles wrought by Bridget Bostock, of Cheshire, who healed all
    diseases by prayer, faith, and an embrocation of fasting spittle, induced multitudes
    to resort to her from all parts of the country, and kept her salival glands in full
    employ. Sir John Pryce, with a high spirit of enthusiasm, wrote to this woman to make
    him a visit at Newton Hall, in order to restore to him his third, a favourite, wife.
    His letter will best tell the foundation on which he built his strange hope, and
    every uncommon request.</p>
    <blockquote>
      <p><i>To Mrs. Bridget Bostock.</i></p>
      <p>Madam,&mdash;Having received information, by repeated advices, both public and
      private, that you have of late performed many wonderful cures, even where the best
      physicians have failed; and that the means used appear to be very inadequate to the
      effect produced; I cannot but look upon you as an extraordinary and highly favoured
      person. And why may not the same most merciful God, who enables you to restore
      sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and strength to the same, also enable you
      to raise the dead to life? Now, having lately lost a wife, whom I most tenderly
      loved, my children a most excellent step-mother, and our acquaintances a most dear
      and valuable friend, you will lay us all under the highest obligations; and I
      earnestly entreat you, for God Almighty's sake, that you will put up your petitions
      to the Throne of Grace on our behalf, that the deceased may be restored to us, and
      the late dame Eleanor Pryce be raised from the dead. If your personal attendance
      appears to you to be necessary, I will send my coach and six, with proper servants
      to wait on you hither, whenever you please to appoint. Recompense of any kind that
      you may please to propose would be made with the utmost gratitude; but I wish the
      bare mention of it is not offensive to both God and you.</p>
      <p>I am, madam,</p>
      <p>Your most obedient, and very much afflicted, humble servant,</p>
      <p>JOHN PRYCE.</p>
    </blockquote>
    <h3>THEOLOGICAL WIT.</h3>
    <p>The late Rev. Thomas Toller, an eminent dissenting minister, (joint preacher with
    the celebrated Dr. James Fordyce, at Monkwell-street,) resided many years in the
    Lower-street, Islington. One day, when he got into the stage to come to <span
    class="pagenum"><a id="page80" name="page80"></a>[pg 80]</span>London, he met with
    two ladies of his acquaintance, and a loquacious young Irishman, who was very
    obtrusive with his "would-be wit" to the females. The coachman soon stopped to take
    up another passenger, who, Dutchman-like, was "<i>slow to make haste</i>." A young
    dog, being confined in the neighbourhood, bewailed its loss of liberty, by making an
    hideous noise; which all the party agreed was very disagreeable. The Hibernian,
    desirous to display his wit, and to <i>quiz</i> the parson, said, "The animal was so
    unpleasantly noisy, it must be a presbyterian <i>dog</i>." Mr. Toller calmly, but
    with much apparent confidence, said, "I am sure it is an Irish dog."&mdash;"How do
    you know that?" exclaimed the astonished young man with eagerness.&mdash;"I know it,
    sir," (replied the divine,) "by its impudence and its howl." This seasonable retort
    cured the garrulity of the patient, and gave him a locked-jaw till the stage arrived
    at the Royal Exchange.</p>
    <h3>RAMSDEN THE OPTICIAN.</h3>
    <p>It was his custom, to retire in the evening to what he considered the most
    comfortable corner in the house, and take his seat close, to the kitchen fireside, in
    order to draw some plan for the forming a new instrument, or scheme for the
    improvement of one already made. There, with his drawing implements on the table
    before him, a cat sitting on the one side, and a certain portion of bread, butter,
    and a small mug of porter placed on the other side, while four or five apprentices
    commonly made up the circle, he amused himself with either whistling the favourite
    air, or sometimes singing the old ballad of</p>
    <blockquote class="poetry">
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "If she is not so true to me,<br />
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What care I to whom she be?<br />
      What care I, what care I, to whom she be!"<br />
    </blockquote>
    <p>and appeared, in this domestic group, contentedly happy. When he occasionally sent
    for a workman, to give him necessary directions concerning what he wished to have
    done, he first showed the recent finished plan, then explained the different parts of
    it, and generally concluded by saying, with the greatest good humour, "Now see, man,
    let us try to find fault with it;" and thus, by putting two heads together, to
    scrutinize his own performance, some alteration was probably made for the better.
    But, whatever expense an instrument had cost in forming, if it did not fully answer
    the intended design, he would immediately say, after a little examination of the
    work, "Bobs, man! this won't do, we must have at it again;" and then the whole of
    that was put aside, and a new instrument, begun. By means of such perseverance, he
    succeeded in bringing various mathematical, philosophical, and astronomical
    instruments to perfection. The large theodolite for terrestrial measurements, and the
    equal altitude instrument for astronomy, will always be monuments of his fertile,
    penetrating, arduous, superior genius! There cannot be a lover (especially of this
    more difficult part) of philosophy, in any quarter of the globe, but must admire the
    abilities, and respect the memory, of Jesse Ramsden&mdash;<i>Practical Observations
    on Telescopes</i>.</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <h2>THE GATHERER.</h2>
    <blockquote>
      "I am but a <i>Gatherer</i> and disposer of other men's
      stuff."&mdash;<i>Wotton</i>.
    </blockquote>
    <hr />
    <p>Mr. Kelly, in his "Reminiscences," relates, that in 1792 he was walking in the
    Place Vendome with two Irish gentlemen, a Colonel Stark Macarthy and a Captain Fagan,
    the latter possessing "a vast portion of the ready wit of his country." Coming to the
    celebrated statue of Victory holding the laurel crown over the head of Louis XIV., a
    French officer was enumerating the splendid achievements of that heroic king, and
    particularly desired us to observe the attitude of the figure of Victory. "Pray,
    sir," said Fagan, "may I take the liberty of asking the question&mdash;Is Victory
    putting the laurel on his majesty's head, or taking it off?" The question puzzled the
    Frenchman, and made us laugh heartily.</p>
    <hr />
    <p>Parr carried his compassion towards the inferior tribes so far, that two or three
    hares found a secure asylum for nearly two years in his garden at Hatton. He said
    that they were his clients, for they had placed themselves under his protection. He
    gave strict orders that they should not be shot. "It would be a gross violation," he
    said, "of a tacit covenant of hospitality."</p>
    <hr />
    <p>A few months since, a noble marquis bespoke a play at a country theatre, the
    representation of which Mr. Canning, prime minister, honoured with his presence. The
    boxes and other parts of the house were crammed, with the exception of the pit, which
    looked beggarly; on which an actor observed to a brother of the sock, "We've no
    <i>pit</i> to-night."&mdash;"No <i>Pitt</i>!" rejoined the other, "and none we want
    while we have a <i>Canning!</i>"</p>
    <hr class="full" />
    <blockquote class="footnote">
      <a id="footnote1" name="footnote1"></a> <b>Footnote 1</b>: <a
      href="#footnotetag1">(return)</a>
      <p>I should feel highly obliged if any of your valuable correspondents would favour
      me, through the medium of the MIRROR, with the name of the noble to whom the above
      arms appertained.</p>
    </blockquote>
    <blockquote class="footnote">
      <a id="footnote2" name="footnote2"></a> <b>Footnote 2</b>: <a
      href="#footnotetag2">(return)</a>
      <p>The remaining part was left to Lady Thornhill, who lived several years with her
      son-in-law after the death of Sir James.</p>
    </blockquote>
    <blockquote class="footnote">
      <a id="footnote3" name="footnote3"></a> <b>Footnote 3</b>: <a
      href="#footnotetag3">(return)</a>
      <p>Our Royal Academy is <i>now</i> governed precisely on the same principles as is
      the French Academy. What would Hogarth have said, had he lived at the present
      day?</p>
    </blockquote>
    <hr class="full" />
    <p><i>Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset House,) and
    sold by all Newsmen and Booksellers.</i></p>
    <hr class="full" />
<pre>


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